I found myself staring at his picture after I hung up the phone with the hospitals front desk receptionist (or whatever the politically correct term is these days). I just stared at his picture on a folded paper clipped print out handed to me by the first neurologist I saw about two years ago who thought I had something called distonia but didn’t know much about it. So he referred me to this Movement Disorder Specialist he told me to look into as he handed me the print out. He sent over my medical records, but back then my insurance didn’t cover this movement disorder specialist. So, I ended up with the one stuck up doctor who I love to quote “40 years of experience” when he  used his years as a doctor to prove to me that he was right about my diagnosis (after just one visit with him) and then told me I need to accept  it in order to get better.

Fortunately, as of today my new student health insurance begins and this insurance covers the  cost of seeing the specialist I was originally referred to.

Now I  have renewed hope that this doctor, that this man, that this human being will look at my medical records I had sent over to his office from my PCPs office,  after I signed a medical release form. Now, I have hope that he will look at my medical records and accept me as a new patient. I have renewed hope that he will accept me as a new patient and he will give me that second opinion the will cure me of all the twisting, jerking and locking my possessed  body tortures me with when I become too exhausted, or I’m on my period or whenever the hell dystonia decides to show back up.

I stare at his picture and I beg, I plead, I pray as if he’s a new God and my stomach turns that he has the power to decide if he will see me or not as a new patient. My stomach turns, as I chant “Please! Please! Please! Accept me as your new patient.”

If moths are more upsetting to the stomach than butterflies, then I have moths in my stomach and so many of them. What if he doesn’t accept me?What do I do then? It isn’t as if there are a bunch of doctors with a specialty in movent disorders available.”Let me help you help me figure out what I have! Please…” I say the doctor’s name repeatedly in my head and out loud as if I was face to face to him now.

He has a nice face. A kind face. This is what I tell myself to convince myself that he is a good doctor, that he cares about people as if a face in a balck and white wrinkled picture can provide all that information. This is what I tell myself because I need to believe that someday I won’t be frightened of exherting myself into a storm. I need to believe that someday I will feel strong again and confident of myself.  If I have a good day I won’t be afraid to enjoy it physically without feeling like a fish on a boat gasping for life as my body finally relaxes and  allows me to breath in as well as out. I need to believe that I won’t be attacked by pain in my back, in my neck, in my limbs during these episodes, but most of all I just don’t want my loved ones to see me this way anymore. The pain on their faces when they see me in pain. That helpless look they have when they know all they can do is let the storm pass and offer me rest and water after.

Please Dr. accept me as your new patient. Please! I will wait in the 3 month line with the rest of my fellow twisters and shakers, because you have my cure or at least more answers and more options than the other doctor and I deserve an answer from a doctor who cares.